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any moment!”
    He let out a small laugh, obviously charmed by my awkwardness.
    “Don’t worry, Mademoiselle Gachet, I intend to ask permission from your father. I would not do it any other way.”
    He was now pacing while I sat there with my limbs frozen. And although I could hear Father opening and closing the drawers in his study upstairs and I could smell the yeasty perfume of my dough browning in the oven, I still sat there motionless, staring at Vincent as he moved in slow steps around our parlor.
    It was he, again, who broke the silence.
    “You should know that I do not take my portraits lightly. I choose my subjects carefully. Deliberately.” He remained by the window with his face turned away from me.
    “I want the people who see my portraits in a hundred years’ time to see them as I did when I first painted them—as apparitions—as selected slivers of the divine.”
    I desperately wanted to tell him how honored I was that he wished to paint me, but before I could manage the words, I heard Father’s footsteps bounding down the hall. He entered with a great flurry, his hands stretched outward as if he were making an elaborate delivery.
    “Here, Vincent. Take three doses of this daily. It should help calm your nerves.”
    Vincent turned directly to my father and took the glass flask from his hand.
    “I don’t have the passionflower prepared, but take this; it’s mugwort,” Papa said. The vial contained a moss-colored liquid which was almost translucent when Vincent held it up to the sunlight. “The Saxons believed it was one of the nine sacred herbs. Even I take it every now and then when I’m feeling depressed.”
    “I told you,” he stammered nervously, “I’ve been trying to wean myself from the green-eyed devil for several months now….” Vincent returned the vial back to Father. “I don’t think I should take it.”
    Papa shook his head and pressed the tincture back into Vincent’s palm. “No, this isn’t absinthe, Vincent.” He let out a small laugh. “It’s medicinal. I’ve been prescribing homeopathic remedies to my patients in Paris for years.”
    Vincent looked at him skeptically. “I don’t know….” He appeared agitated and there seemed to be genuine fear in his eyes. “I don’t want to get addicted to anything again, and if there are side effects…I couldn’t bear that.”
    “These tinctures will only help you get better, Vincent.”
    Still, Vincent hesitated.
    “No, I am going to insist you take it, Vincent.” Father’s voice now sounded stern. “I doubt Theo would be pleased to learn you’re not taking instruction from me. After all, I’m your doctor.”
    I was sure Vincent then cast his eyes in my direction, as if he thought an approving nod from me might assuage his doubts.
    I did not, however, acknowledge him in any way.
    It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I desperately wanted to meet his gaze and interpret his expressions more clearly. But I was afraid that Papa might see me and suspect I was trying to undermine his authority. I wasn’t a doctor. I knew little about the curative powers of plants and flowers. And I was fearful of igniting Father’s wrath after Vincent left.
    “Take it….” Papa’s voice was more persistent now. There was an urgency to it that made it sound like an order.
    I saw Vincent take the flask from Father, place it in his side pocket, and reluctantly acknowledge his instructions with a nod.

EIGHT
     

A Female Model
     
    I HAD difficulty sleeping that evening. All I could think about was Vincent’s eyes heavy on me. I had been right that the first afternoon, when he had handed me the red poppy, he had seen something in me. Now, he had articulated his desire to have me sit for him and I was dizzy from the anticipation.
    The following morning, Father mentioned in passing that Vincent was eager to have a female model and had asked if I could pose for him.
    “Modeling is not an easy task, Marguerite,” Papa warned me. “You